


I Know

by donteattheappleshook



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27786787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donteattheappleshook/pseuds/donteattheappleshook
Summary: Emma hasn’t been in many sword fights in her life but she’s won them all. Well, almost all of them. All of them except that one in Neverland with Killian. But she did beat him at Lake Nostos... right?
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 108





	I Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carpedzem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpedzem/gifts).



> This is a little fic I wrote based on Natalia’s beautiful art. I just couldn’t stop looking at it (especially Killian’s face <3) and it inspired this little story. 
> 
> https://carpedzem.tumblr.com/post/624994838283157504/me-adding-colours-so-hopefully-nobody-sees
> 
> big thank you to @elizabeethan for fixing my terrible writing <3

Emma has been in a limited number of sword fights in her life. Granted, it’s a lot more sword fights than most women her age born in the same era. But most of those women have never found out they were secretly the daughter of fairytale characters and had villains chasing them twenty-four hours a day. Despite her rather minimal experience, however, her record is pretty good. She’s won nearly every sword fight she’s been forced into (she much prefers a gun - faster and more efficient). It would be all sword fights were it not for one smug Jack Sparrow-esque pirate. 

Emma has been in exactly two sword fights with Killian Jones and has won exactly one. The first one. And the longer time goes on, the more she starts to think he may have let her win. She’d felt so smug, so self righteous, knocking him out with that compass as he was still casually spitting out innuendo after innuendo. She supposes, technically, she didn’t beat him with a sword, she beat him with blunt force trauma. And just maybe, he’d let her do it, had left himself open to her last-ditch attempt at getting home to her kid. 

She’d first started to suspect that her victory might not have been quite so honestly come by when they were in Neverland. The first night the Lost Boys attacked had been chaos, arrows whizzing past her head, her family circling around her as though she were some helpless, _useless_ damsel in distress, Regina throwing fire around like it was nobody’s business. 

And then there was Killian. Cutting his sword gracefully through the air, blocking left and right, disarming and disabling one attacker after another. Watching him fight was like watching some sort of dance. He was graceful and controlled, every movement purposeful and fluid and natural. She’d never seen anything like it. It was beautiful and mesmerizing to watch, despite the violence and the bloodshed. 

And he was confident too, a small smirk on his lips as he slashed at one enemy before knocking another away with his hook, barb after barb falling from his lips, taunting them, egging them on. He wasn’t afraid. What reason did he have to be? He knew what he was doing. He’d spend hundreds of years perfecting the art. Killian Jones was a deadly and naturally skilled swordsman. There was no questioning it. 

That was why she’d decided to ask him to teach her. She remembered the look on her parent’s faces when she had, a combination of disbelief and fear and resentment - the last aimed at the pirate in question rather than at her. They’d immediately jumped in, insisting it was a bad idea, that they could protect her, that she didn’t need to fight the Lost Boys, she didn’t have enough time to learn, it was too dangerous. 

“Stop,” she’d said finally, silencing them all. “This is exactly why I need to learn. I’m here to get my son back and I can’t do that if I’m cowering behind my parents every time we’re faced with a fight. I need to be able to take care of myself.” Her mother started to protest but Emma cut her off. “What if something happens to you?” Regina scoffed and Emma glared at her. “If you’re not there to protect me do you really want me to be vulnerable?”

“Then let me teach you,” David had said, shooting a dirty look at the other man who had yet to say a word. “I can show you how to -”

“No. You can’t,” she interrupted and winced at his hurt look. “You’re my dad,” she said, trying to soften the blow. “You’ll go easy on me - _even if you don’t want to_ ,” she insisted when he tried to deny it. “I need someone who won’t be afraid to hurt me, someone who doesn't care and who won’t be so concerned with making sure I’m safe that they don’t teach me how to defend myself when someone’s actually trying to kill me. And Hook’s fought Pan before. He knows how he works, all his tricks. It has to be him.” 

The group was silent, her parents reluctantly accepting, Regina examining her nails, and Killian, well, Killian hadn’t said a word since the subject had been brought up.

“So?” she asked, finally turning to him. 

He was sat on a rock, staring fixedly at a spot on the ground, but met her eyes when she addressed him. “Will you do it?” He looked to Mary Margaret and David who were watching him with nervous hope and raging disdain respectfully. He turned back to her and raised a brow at her defiant pose, even though she was the one asking something of him. He nodded. 

“Good,” she nodded back. She reached over and grabbed her cutlass from where it lay leaning against a nearby tree and slung it over her back. “Let’s go.” 

“Where are you going?” David demanded as she began to walk away. 

“We’re not gonna do it here where you can try and kill him every time he takes a swing at me,” she sighed. Her father looked a little insulted but also slightly abashed. She could see Killian biting back a laugh. She shot him a look. “You coming?” He stood, sword ever-present at his side, and gestured for her to lead the way. 

She stomped off into the jungle and he followed diligently along behind her. They walked a long while until she found another clearing that she thought would do nicely. Killian still hadn’t spoken and it was starting to drive her a little crazy; until now, she’d thought him incapable of shutting up. 

“Are you going to say anything?” she finally demanded, whirling on him and practically shouting. He looked at her in surprise, brows lifting towards his hairline. 

“What would you like me to say?” 

“I don’t know,” she huffed, frustrated. She was tired and she was in some magical land and stuck with the stupid, annoying pirate who, if he was good for anything, was usually good for a distraction with his non-stop litany of comments and stories and flirtations. And now he was giving her nothing. She hated how much his silence left room for other things to creep in and fill it, let the fear and the self-doubt scratch at the back of her mind. She needed to shake them off, silence them, or she wouldn’t be able to concentrate and get her kid back. 

She drew her sword and held it out in front of her, between them. She waited for Killian to draw his own sword but he only stood there, looking at her carefully, tilting his head slightly. What was he waiting for? He was here to teach her how to fight, wasn’t he? He needed his sword out for that. 

“Well?” she snapped. 

“You’re holding it wrong.” 

Emma frowned, looking down at her hand and at the hilt clasped within it “What do you mean? How can you hold it wrong? Pointy end towards the other guy. What more is there to it?”

She watched him shut his eyes in clear exasperation, tilting his head back and taking a measured breath before stepping forward with a sigh. The next thing she knew, he’d caught her wrist in his hook and was drawing her hand towards him. 

“Hey! What -” she started but he was already shifting her fingers and rearranging her grip. 

“You’re holding it too low. If you hold it there the weight will be too much and your arm will tire before your opponent does,” he explained, closing his hand around hers and squeezing until he was sure she would keep it there. “Here, the weight is balanced.” She hated that he was right, the blade already feeling lighter, her muscles straining less. 

She waited for an innuendo, something about proper grip and how to handle a sword, but none came. She was about to say something, but was cut off when he pulled her wrist suddenly, jerking her arm forward and she cried out in surprise and annoyance. “Bend your elbow,” he told her and she glared.

“You just yanked my arm out of its socket!” she berated him but he went on, tucking her elbow in a little and loosening her wrist. 

“The blade should feel like an extension of your arm,” he told her, before releasing her hand. The sword fell limply to her side and he tisked, pulling her arm back up again. “If you treat it as such, and hold it right, your arm won’t collapse under it.” 

She couldn’t believe how seriously he was taking this. She’d had reservations about asking him for help, worried he would use it as some excuse to get close to her, to flirt and continue his ongoing attempts at seduction. She was surprised by the very matter-of-fact way he was treating the lesson. It was so unlike him, so unlike _them_ and it bothered her that she missed the innuendos. 

She cleared her throat and tried to focus her mind on what he was saying and not on the fact that he was inches away from her and not commenting on it. She licked her lips and adjusted her arm until the sword felt balanced, like it was a part of her rather than something she was holding up. When he dropped her arm again, the sword held steady. 

“Better,” he said and she gave him a slightly proud smirk. He smiled back at her and it was sweet, supportive and impressed like the one he’d given her on the beanstalk, the one that had stolen her breath for a moment then and did again now. But in a second it turned wicked and suddenly her feet were knocked out from under her and her back hit the ground with a thud, leaving her winded. 

She looked up from her spot on the jungle floor at where he was standing over her. She expected a cocky grin, a smug look but instead his face was serious, a frown marring his brow. “Lesson one,” he said, “Pan likes his tricks. Always be ready for a fight.” She glared. “There won’t always be time to get ready for one.”

He stepped back and she scrambled to her feet, reaching down quickly to grab her sword. By the time she was up and had the breath back in her lungs he was already waiting and looking bored, his blade resting across his shoulders. His tongue poked against his cheek as he watched her reach out and hold the cutlass in front of her as he’d taught her. He gave a nod and she assumed that meant she was doing it right. 

“Shall we, then?” he asked stepping forward and shifting his weight onto his back leg. She did her best to mimic his pose and got an eyebrow tick but nothing else in response. 

She waited for him to move, to tell her what to do or to attack but he did nothing. After a long moment she figured he expected her to start and so she lunged forward, swinging her sword and aiming for his chest. He knocked her blow away with a disinterested flick of his wrist. Her blade hit the ground and he waited again. He hadn’t even moved. 

She swung again and once more he blocked easily, disarming her this time and sending her sword clattering across the jungle floor. She glared as she walked through the clearing to retrieve it. The third time she attacked and he deflected, she managed to hang on to her sword, as she did the fourth and fifth time. But with every attempt he was looking more bored and more annoyed, as though fighting her was some kind of indignation, like a child trying to hang on to your leg.

Her next attempt had more force behind it, though her arm was already starting to tire from the strain. _Come on,_ she chided herself. _You beat him before. What’s different this time?_ He caught the sword with his hook this time, using the hilt of his sword to push her back away from him and she fell right on her ass with a shout. 

“ _Seriously?_ ” she scowled at him. “Was that really necessary?” 

He shrugged. “You need to learn to keep your footing or you’ll get knocked around far worse than that in a real fight,” was all he said. _Asshole._ Fine. if that was how he wanted to do this, then she’d give him a real fight. 

She stood, taking her sword with both hands and swinging at him with everything she had. He ducked and deflected and countered everything she threw at him, barely moving from his spot where he’d first raised his sword to her. She slashed again and he shoved her back. She kept her footing this time but only barely. 

“You expect to get your son back like this?” he asked and something in her snapped. A rage and a hatred and spite filled her, forming a wall around the fear and anxiety that had plagued her since she got here. She ran at him, sword raised and aimed for his head, for that scar that marked his cheek, wanting to split it open. 

The sword was out of her hands in an instant and suddenly he was behind her. She turned, fury still raging in her blood and attacked him with her bare hands. He avoided her gracefully, using her own momentum to throw her off balance and she hit the floor with a wicked thud, landing on her elbows. She flipped onto her back quickly but was met with a blade at her throat and when she moved to sit up it pressed against her chest, nearly piercing skin and she stared up at him in anger and shock. 

“You need to control your temper,” he said, holding his weapon steady.

“Fuck you,” she said. “I don’t need this from you of all people.” She tried to stand again but he pushed back with the sharp metal, keeping her grounded. She wondered if he’d actually wound her. 

“Do you think Pan won’t use your anger against you? Do you think he won’t threaten and manipulate and belittle you until your rage and your pride forstall all your sense and any skill I manage to impart upon you?” Emma glared, her hackles rising in defense. She didn’t want to admit that he was right. “Your anger weakens you. Learn to master it or it will be your undoing as it was at Lake Nostos.” 

“I beat you at Lake Nostos,” she challenged and a strange sort of expression crossed his face. He looked away and his jaw ticked before he met her gaze again. What was that look? She _had_ beaten him, _hadn’t she?_ She tried to marry the two fights, to think of how she’d beaten him then and how easily he beat her now. What exactly was he implying?

She pushed the blade away with her hand. She didn’t meet resistance and he stepped back from her, resuming his position a few feet away. She stood, taking a moment to look for her weapon before he held it up, handing it over to her. She grumbled as she took it.

“Again,” he said. 

For the next thirty minutes, Emma was disarmed, thrown back, knocked off her feet and dismissed more times than she could count. Each time with an annoyed scoff or a tisk from the man dealing the blows to her body and her ego. When she landed on her ass for the hundredth time that evening she practically screamed in frustration. 

“What the hell is wrong with you, Hook? Is this some kind of game to you? You’re supposed to be teaching me how to fight!” 

“And I’ve told you I can’t until you can think with your head and not your emotions.” 

“I don’t need this wax-on wax-off bullshit! Just show me how to not get stabbed by some idiot teenager with a sword!” 

“Fine then,” he said and for a moment, Emma thought he’d finally finished with his stupid sword fighting philosophy. But then he was sheathing his weapon and turning to head out of the clearing. 

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” he said. “If you won’t listen, then I can’t help you. Figure out how not to fall victim to a Lost Boy's blade on your own.” 

“Are you serious?” she demanded, shouting after him, but he’d already left the clearing and disappeared into the woods. “Hook!” she shouted, her anger building. Why was he being like this? Fuck him and his ‘your anger weakens you’ shit. She’d show him. 

She stomped after him, picking up her pace until she’d nearly caught up to him. She shouted his moniker at him and he turned in surprise. Emma raised her blade, ready to get the upper hand on him, but in an instant her back was against a tree and her arm was pinned to her side, his hooked arm across her chest, keeping her there. There was anger in his eyes and it was the most emotion she’s seen from him since they’d left the others. 

“Hook. Let me go.” She tried to free her wrist but his grip was firm. 

“You attacked my turned back. That’s bad form. Even the Lost Boys know better than that.”

“You’re hurting me,” she told him, glaring and then wincing as she tried to free herself again. 

“I thought this was what you wanted, Swan. ‘ _Someone who doesn’t care about you_ ’. Who won’t be afraid to hurt you,” he quoted her own words back to her.

She nearly missed it but it shocked her when she caught what crossed his face. Hurt. She’d hurt him. She remembered their conversation only a few days ago. _I thought you didn’t care about anyone but yourself. Maybe I just needed reminding that I could._ He was trying. He’d come out here with her and the man he’d hated for hundreds of years to try and save her son. He didn’t have to. He had nothing to gain from it. They understood each other and now she realized that he’d done it because, maybe, he wanted to try to be someone better. And she’d dismissed him in a single sentence. 

“I’m sorry,” she said then, and surprise weakened his grip. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you don’t… _not_ care,” she finished lamely. “I just don’t know what the hell I’m doing and I’m afraid of what’s going to happen to Henry, to _everyone_ if I can’t do this. Even to Regina. _Even to you_ ,” she confessed finally, tears burning her eyes. “I don’t know what to do.” 

His face softened then and she could see the understanding and the compassion in his eyes. “Breathe,” he said finally, and for once she didn’t fight him. She took a slow, shaky and steadying breath, holding his gaze while she exhaled, feeling the fear and the anger follow it out of her lungs. 

“Get yourself out of this,” he challenged. “Use your head. The Lost Boys like to play on fear and panic and keeping you feeling trapped. Learn to ignore it. Think. And find the weakness.” 

It took her a moment. She looked around, searching for something she could grab, some way to wriggle free but there was nothing. But then she found it, felt the dagger at his belt pressing against her leg and with her free arm she unsheathed it, holding it up to his throat. The smirk that crossed his face was both proud and impressed. She returned it, pressing the blade against his skin until he released her, stepping back and holding his hands up in surrender. “Excellent. Now, are you ready to listen?” 

She rolled her eyes but agreed. “After you, Mr. Miyagi.” 

“Who?”

“Nevermind.” 

Emma almost hated to admit how right he had been. In less than a few hours he’d taught her several defensive and offensive maneuvers, breaking them down until she could do them fairly comfortably. And then he’d challenged her again. He was still taking it seriously. There was no mirth or lightheartedness to his attacks or his parrys. He was teaching her how to survive and neither ignored the gravity of that fact. And she found that soon she was able to recognise his attacks, to think quickly and remember the counters he’d taught her and how to use them. She was only knocked on her ass twice more after she stopped trying to think with her heart and trusted his instructions. 

Only after they were both exhausted, sweaty and panting and covered in dirt - on her part anyway - did they finally stop. They were sitting against a log, catching their breaths and sharing her canteen when he spoke. 

“We can do this again, Swan. If you’d like,” he told her. “But I think you’ll give the Lost Boys a good fight the next time they come for us.” Emma grinned. After what she’d seen of his skills, she knew to take that as the highest of compliments. 

“We should be getting back,” she said, stoppering the canteen. “My dad will come looking for me pretty soon.” Hook nodded and they sheathed their weapons. He stood, reaching a hand down to help her up and she took it. She wasn’t sure exactly when this peaceful camaraderie had settled between them but it was nice to have an ally that wasn’t her parents, someone she was starting to think she could actually trust. He pulled her to her feet and gestured for her to lead the way back to camp. 

It wasn’t until they were at the edge of the jungle, a few yards from the clearing that he stopped her, his hook looping around her elbow and she turned to look at him with confusion. 

“Swan,” he said and she glanced down at his hook and then back up at him with a raised brow. There was something in his expression, that vulnerability she’d only seen once or twice. “I know that you want to take care of yourself, that you want to take on the Lost Boys and Pan and this whole damn island on your own. I’m starting to believe you could if you set your mind to it,” he admitted and she smirked. 

“But -” he started and her brow ticked up in question. “Please don’t be afraid to let us help you. Being taken care of isn’t always weakness. People _caring for you_ isn’t weakness.” She looked at him with wide eyes and he scratched a spot behind his ear, a tick she’d noticed he had when he was uncomfortable. “What I’m trying to say is: I _do_ care if you get hurt. So... let _me_ help you.” 

Emma blinked in surprise at his confession. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting but it hadn’t been that. She knew he maybe had a bit of a thing for her - he was the king of innuendo after all. But his sincerity caught her off guard. It was the same look he’d given her when he’d turned his ship around and come back to her. 

For the second time that day she thought of all he’d done, what he’d put aside and sacrificed to help her family - _to help her_. He didn’t have to. And he hadn’t stopped helping since they’d arrived. He’d just spent hours teaching her to defend herself and now he was imploring her to let him help keep her safe. She nodded and a look of relief crossed his face.

She wasn’t sure what came over her, maybe it was gratitude or the exhaustion or even something resembling affection, but she stepped forward, her hand finding the lapel of his coat and settling there over his chest. She could see the surprise in his eyes, but he didn’t pull back as she leaned in and thought with her heart again. 

Her lips brushed his and he held still for a moment, like he was worried she’d run away if he moved. But then he kissed her back, lips moving over hers as softly and tentatively as hers did. When she pulled back he was watching her with hooded eyes, his voice rough when he spoke. 

“What was that for?”

She shrugged. “A thank you.” 

He watched her for a second more and then a cheeky grin played at his lips before he caught the bottom one between his teeth. “Well, I must say, Swan, I’m very fond of your method of showing gratitude. Is there any other way I could be of help? Some service I could render?” 

She rolled her eyes. She should have known he’d make her regret it. But a smirk tugged at her lips anyway. “Just help me get my kid back, okay?” she said.

His expression was serious again. “Aye, Swan. That I can promise you.” 

***

She hadn’t thought about it again. Not for a long time. Not until they were trapped in the Author’s storybook and Emma came upon the shy deckhand wearing the face of the man she loved. She hadn’t missed the irony of her teaching him to swordfight. Her who still preferred a gun to a blade, who had been in only a handful of fights, most of them by his side, now teaching him the same skills he’d so dutifully bestowed upon her. 

She could feel his shaky breath against her cheek, his nervous grunts and gasps as she guided him through the motions. A part of her longed to tease him, for payback. _Just breathe_ , she’d almost said. But while her Killian could have handled it, this one could not. And he needed to be able to protect himself. It was her turn now. Her turn to care and to help and to keep him safe. 

But then the twisted version of her parents had attacked and her Killian - because he was, after all, hers, his actions had proven so - had surprised her again. He was brave and selfless and she watched him fight her father with grace and ease despite his doubt and somewhat awkward maneuvers. Memories or not, Killian was a skilled swordsman and she watched as he took on Prince Charming, the best fighter in the Enchanted Forest, and won. 

She hadn’t read into it then. She’d been too overtaken by fear and panic and then grief to put together that even without his memories, Killian Jones remained undefeated with a blade. She’d seen him fight countless times now since Lake Nostos, since Neverland, and every time he’d won. And he’d won with confidence and skill and sometimes even with ease. 

So now, now that things are quiet, now that things have been quiet for a long time, longer than she can remember them having been since she arrived in Storybrooke all those years ago, she doesn't need to think about fighting or swords. Her husband had stopped wearing his blade at his side a year ago, the imminent fear of a threat around every corner long gone. But it’s that blade that makes her think of it again. 

She’s on the _Jolly Roger_ when she finds it. Looking through trunks of clothes and plundered items, all of them immaculately packed, when she notices the vest. The blue vest she’d worn that day on his ship when he’d died for her as a deckhand. She takes it out and holds it close as she remembers the pain of that day but also remembers it as the time she first admitted to herself that she loved him. 

A little further in, she finds his red vest, and his greatcoat that she missed if she’s being honest with herself. It reminds her of beanstalks and jungles and stolen kisses. Maybe she’ll bring it home with her, keep it in the closet in case the urge to donne it again should overcome her husband. And then, at the bottom, sheathed and resting carefully on a cushion of soft silk, is his sword. 

She takes it out, holding it in both her hands and noting the weight of it, having never actually held it. It’s heavier than it looks, heavier than he made it look. He’d swung it around with such ease and elegance, as though it weighed nothing. Unsheathing it, she looks at the blade and then at the coat and the vest, remembering the times they’d fought, the times they’d taught each other. 

What had been that look that had come over his face in Neverland? She frowns. At the time she’d thought maybe he was just bitter that he’d been beaten by her. But she knows him better now. It hadn’t been long after that that he had offered his services to save her son. He’d read her on the beanstalk, told her she had a child to get home to, one she didn’t want to abandon. He’d been so consumed by revenge that the thought that he might want to help her hadn’t even crossed her mind. And now she wonders if he’d let her go, let her find her way back home to her family. 

No, she knows he did. She knows Killian Jones, knows the man she married and there’s no doubt in her mind that he threw the fight so long ago. And yet he’d let her lord it over his head for _years_. Whenever he and her father would bicker about who was the better swordsman she’d throw in a quick reminder that he’d been defeated by someone who didn’t know what they were doing and he’d smirk affectionately and kiss her and claim he was distracted by her beauty or that she did have a habit of besting him. 

Well then. Time to settle this. For ages she’s believed that despite his skills she had won fairly. And she’s determined to keep the title of the one who defeated Captain Hook. But if she has it, she wants it earned fairly. 

A smile pulls at her lips as she shucks her sweater, pulling on the chemise and the blue vest and throwing her hair back to secure it off her face. He’ll be here in a minute. They had plans to clean out the ship. It had been far too long since the well-organized junk had been looked through and she goes looking for a second sword. It’s fairly easy to find one in the tidiness. 

When she hears his footsteps on the deck above she grabs the second sword and his, heading up to meet him, but pauses, looking back at the heavy jacket laid across the trunk. She smiles as she takes it, throwing it over her arm and rushing up the stairs out of the cabin. His face lights up when he sees her even as he squints against the bright sun.

“Hello, love,” he greets, reaching out his hand. “That’s quite the ensemble,” he points out. “What’s the occasion.” She doesn’t go to him though, instead standing her ground and crossing her arms over her chest. 

“We’re fighting,” she tells him and his eyes widen in surprise. She can see the confusion and the panic cross his features as he frowns. 

“What’s happened?” he asks, taking a step towards her. “Have I done something to upset you, Swan?” Emma almost laughs at his reaction. Her pirate, her husband, always so concerned about her. She shakes her head, holding up his jacket and then tossing it to him. He catches it easily with hand and hook but is still watching her wearily. 

“No.” She holds the swords up between them. “ _We’re fighting_.” 

“Ah.” The relief is evident in the sag of his shoulders and while there’s still confusion on his brow, there’s also mischief and a bit of excitement. He still loves a challenge. “May I ask why?”

Emma stares him down, demanding the truth with her gaze though she knows he’d never lie to her. “Did you throw the fight at Lake Nostos?”

There’s shock for only a moment before a wry smile tugs at his lips. He cocks a brow at her mischievously, his hand coming up to scratch behind his ear. She knows that move. That’s his tell. He doesn’t even have to answer. He steps forward, saying her name appeasingly, the way he always does when he knows he’s going to be forgiven for some teasing remark. 

“Why?” she asks, holding her stance even as he brushes a loose strand away from her face. 

“You had Henry to get back to. I may have been angry with you, but I wouldn’t separate a parent from her child.” Her heart practically melts, as does the rest of her. Even then, even at the height of his anger and vengeance, he’d still been the same man, the one she fell in love with. “And I’d started to quite fancy you,” he adds with a smirk, kissing the spot behind her ear where he’d just tucked her hair. She’s almost ready to forgive him, and maybe let him bring her back down into his cabin, when he speaks again. 

“You fought valiantly, Swan. But you were no match for a pirate.” 

And there it is, that cocky bravado that always makes her crazy. Only this time she’s annoyed rather than aroused. Well, she can be both, she decides. He’s stepping closer, surely thinking of bringing her back down to the cabin himself, when she presses both sheathed swords to his chest, stopping him in his tracks. He looks down at them and then up to her with an amused eyebrow quirk. 

“I want a rematch,” she tells him, using the weapons to push him back. “I plan to beat you fair and square, Captain.” His gaze darkens a fraction at the use of his title but he steps back, nodding in acquiescence and holding his arms out in a deep bow, the heavy leather still draped over one. 

“As you wish.”

“Put the coat on,” she demands and he looks at her questioningly.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “Because I like it.” 

He laughs and does as he’s asked, removing his new jacket to slip his arms through the old one. She really _had_ missed that jacket. He looks like the man she’d first met, the one she’d let her guard down around and who she’d let climb her walls. He’s the man she fell in love with all over again. The man who - _who threw the damn fight and lied about it_. She may be in love with him but her pride is a fierce thing and she wants it back. 

She tosses his sword to him and he catches it easily, unsheathing it and holding it out between them. Her mind reels with memories of Neverland, of him teaching her and challenging her and pinning her to that damn tree. And then with memories of Lake Nostos, of his easy laugh as she fought him and the innuendoes he’d throw at her. She breathes, crossing her blade with his. A smirk comes over her face, a challenge, and he takes it. 

He moves first, a swipe of his sword that she deflects. He gives her an impressed smirk and she returns it with a grateful nod. He attacks again and she dodges it this time. He’s going easy on her, she can tell, and so she moves next. This fight is different from the others. There’s no threat, no fear, only two headstrong people who love each other dearly and absolutely want to obliterate the other. 

She knows the winner of this fight will have bragging rights for the rest of their lives and she’ll never live it down if he beats her. But every lunge and parry is accompanied by an amused smirk or a teasing comment. 

“Your skill has grown immensely, Swan. But I think you could benefit from more regularly handling a sword,” the innuendo is heavy in his tone and he crosses their blades again. “I’d be happy to help you practice.” 

“Keep it up,” she says, “and I think you’ll find you have lots of time to practice handling your own sword.” His grin is wicked.

“Oh, I have no problem keeping it up, as you well know.” He winks and she rolls her eyes. “I did promise you that when I jabbed you with my sword you’d feel it.” And then suddenly his hook has caught her ankle, sweeping her feet out from under her and landing her on her back with a very smug pirate astride her. 

“Yeah,” she says with disinterest. “Still waiting for you to come through on that one.” 

He laughs and she uses that opportunity to swing her sword up from where her arm lay beside her. He nearly misses the block but manages to stop it with his own before it reaches him. “Close one,” he says with a grin. He has one knee between hers, his weight behind his sword pushing down on her and she knows he can overpower her but he isn’t. That’s when she realises that the bastard wants her to surrender, to admit defeat. Not likely. She breathes, looking for the weakness. It’s not hard to find, she can feel it pressing against her hip. 

She rolls up against him, delighting in the surprised, choked groan that leaves him. His weight behind his sword becomes unsteady and their blades come dangerously close to her face before he pulls back and drops his sword to his side. “ _Bloody hell, woman_ ,” he chastises. “I nearly impaled you!” 

Emma smirks. “I’m pretty sure that comes later.”

She uses her weight to roll him onto his back, trapping his good hand against his side with her knee, the other slides up to his hook, pinning it down and twisting the metal free. She holds his own hook under his chin, using it to tilt his head up and she levels him with a challenging gaze. 

“Do you surrender?”

Killian laughs. “Never!” But she can feel him trying to free his arm, shifting his weight to try and break free. She tightens her thighs around him and he relents, smiling up at her in one of the ways she likes best, when he’s a little bit in awe of her. She beat him. She may have used a few tricks, but she won. But then he looks at her with a smug, cool grin and she frowns. 

“I won,” he says. _What?_ She braces herself for some surprise move, looks for some way he could turn the tables. She’s holding his damn hook in her hand. 

“I’m literally pinning you down.” 

“I know.” The look on his face is incorrigible and she rolls her eyes. He laughs again, a low, warm chuckle and she can feel the love and the desire radiating off of him. 

“Idiot,” she says before leaning down to capture his lips. 

  
  



End file.
